Protection Detail
by ladyeagle117
Summary: Selected to protect Director Vance, Tony must pull double duty his first night in L.A. Post "Endgame" - Caution: Season 7 spoilers;Rated T just in case
1. A Scream in the Night

Gibbs stormed out of the elevator and into the bullpen, thin manila folder in one hand, tall black coffee in the other, looking even more agitated and irritable than usual. "DiNozzo. David. Now." Tony was in front of his desk in three seconds flat, Ziva not far behind; Team Gibbs' Rule Number One: NEVER screw with Gibbs when he's in a bad mood. If you value your life, that is.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You've been requested for protection detail. The Director is in Los Angeles for a five day defense conference, and he's selected the two of you to accompany him."

Incredulous, Tony looked to his partner, who was so stunned that her mouth hung open and her eyes bugged slightly. "Um…Boss…Are you sure this is a good idea? .... I mean, Ziva and I don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to escorting directors places….particularly L.A. We can't afford to lose another one in a blast from the past. There aren't exactly folks lining up at the door, begging for the job. Are you sure he wouldn't rather have Jessop or Collins there instead?"

Gibbs' jaw clenched and his eyes grew hard, every line on his face etched with something like pain. "He will. After the Kai fiasco, we figured it's best to play it safe. You two have the day shift, zero-six to eighteen-hundred. Collins and Jessop'll be with the Director after that so someone can keep an eye on him while you get some sleep. The room's under Ziva's name." She smirked.

"When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow. Bags packed and ready to go by zero-five. Don't screw up, don't get killed, and _don't_," he shoved the boarding passes into Tony's chest, "miss your flight."

*

Eighteen-o-five. Luggage in hand, Ziva entered the sixth-floor room first, nearly separating Tony's patent leather clad feet from the rest of his body with her overnight-bag when she stopped short in the entryway. "Oh no…no…you have _got_ to be kidding me!"

Nursing his slightly bruised ankles, he slipped around her and out of the hall so as to get a better view of their living arrangements. "Let's see, we've got a television, not a plasma, but it'll do…balcony overlooking the pool, very nice…fridge…I don't see what your problem is. I mean, sure, it's a little dusty and I've got such a bad case of de-ja-vu that I'm surprised I haven't time warped yet, but there's really nothing wro-" He stopped short as he finished his survey. "Okay, _that_ would qualify as a major issue."

It was a handsome room, a testament to the expensive hotel in which they were lodged, though, as Tony had pointed out, slightly dusty. The television, _only_ a 42" flat-screen with liquid crystal display, was perched on the bottom shelf of a large chestnut bureau, which was positioned near a large chestnut writing desk, perfect for writing up reports. Through the half-closed curtains it was possible to make out the veranda, situated with several lawn chairs and teak side table. In the far corner were two leather recliners flanking a rod-iron standing lamp. And, to the right of it all stood Ziva's problem: one large exquisitely carved chestnut bed.

"I am calling the front desk," she insisted, making for the phone. "This is most definitely _not _what the agency requested." She picked up the receiver, dialed, and drummed the desk impatiently until some poor, innocent fool on the other end picked up. Team Gibbs' Rule Number Two: Don't EVER screw with Ziva when she's ticked. Unlike Gibbs, there is almost 100% certainty that it _will _cost you your sanity, various bodily extremities, and/or your life. "Yes? We have a problem in Room 301. Our reservation said twin, but we have been given a queen….yes, everything else is satisfactory, but…no, but…will you listen to me?! I do not care one way or the other who your protocol says I have to talk to and whether or not they are available right now, I will remain on this line until…" She spat the last few words at the unfortunately incompetent soul at the other end with such a force that he must have recoiled, and, if looks could kill, everyone within a ten mile radius would have mysteriously dropped dead.

She seemed about ready to snap something in half - the receiver, or perhaps Tony - so he chose that moment to explore the bathroom off the hall. By the time he returned, Ziva had cooled off somewhat. He, at least, no longer had any reason to fear. The manager now on the other end, however, would do well to watch his back. "Yes, but…no, but…of course, but…very well. I will be speaking with you tomorrow then." She carefully returned the phone to its original position and rounded on Tony, livid, shaking with pent up rage.

"Apparently it takes three brainless staff members to figure out that there has been a mistake, and another two to decide what to do about it." He almost laughed out loud at the malice dripping from every syllable, but decided against it. "They are…what is the term…booked solid. Tomorrow there will be an availability, but it is on the third floor, right wing, far away from where we could be of any use, and we would only be able to take the room at the expense of another party." She looked around once more. "I suppose I could sleep in one of the recliners. They look relatively comfortable. Or," she made her way open to the window and threw open the curtains, "perhaps I might lock you on the balcony. You could spend the night googling bikini-clad women, and it would be exceptionally quiet in here."

"Ogling. I don't need a search engine for that…not just yet, anyway. And, come on Zee-vah. We're both adults here. We can share a bed for a few days, no biggie."

"_I_ am an adult. You, however," she looked him up and down, "I am not quite so sure about."

"It's not like we really have much of a choice, now is it? Do whatever you want. All I'd like right now is a shower, a little bit of food, maybe a movie, and some shut-eye."

"How can you possibly be tired? You slept the entire flight."

"It's not the same," he informed her, rummaging through his bag for a change of clothes. "Call Room Service, won't ya'?"

Ziva sighed, exasperated. "What do you want?"

"Whatever. Just pick something. You know what I like."

A smile tugged at her lips as she picked up the receiver and dialed once more. Somewhere behind her, a door shut and water started. There was a click on the other end, followed by, "Hello?" Yes, she knew exactly what he liked…what she liked, for that matter. _That_, more than anything else,was the problem.

*

Tony was still holed up in the bathroom when a knock at the door heralded the arrival of dinner. Ziva opened the door for a red clad waiter bearing a large tray laden with food, and informed her partner of his arrival. "I'll be out in a minute. If you wanna tip him, my wallet's on top of my bag." She pulled a five from between the folds of soft, brown leather, handed it to the expectant attendant, nodded at his thanks, and stooped to pick up a small piece of paper that had fallen as he let himself out. She flipped it over and caught her breath. Apparently Tony was right. He _didn't_ need a search engine to look at women in bikinis, because, dislodged from its place of honor between a crumpled twenty dollar bill and an old condom wrapper when she'd tipped the server, was the forbidden picture: the one from their disastrous first trip to Los Angeles, the one she'd expressly told him to destroy.

She hastily shoved it back into the billfold and returned the wallet to its resting place as he entered the room. Wet hair tousled to and fro, plaid bottoms just a little too long and Buckeye's t-shirt just a little too tight, beaming as if all was right in the world, he looked like a man in a dream. Boy, did he have some explaining to do.

*

It was late. He should have been exhausted by now, but something kept him awake, kept drawing him back to her, lying beside him in all her glory: her chocolate brown curls splayed across the pillow, side rising and falling to the measure of her slow, even breathing. He tried not to inhale too deeply, to avoid indulging himself in her wonderful scent, sweet and intoxicating, yet surprisingly sharp, or to drift into the shadowy world of fantasies, debating exactly what she wore underneath the t-shirt that barely made it half way down her well-toned thighs, and the myriad of ways in which he could find out.

She was his partner, she had been for nearly five years, and they shared a special bond. She understood him better than anyone he had ever known, saw deep into the essence of his being, past the insolent frat boy and into the core of his very self. She was like a sister, a mother, and a best friend all rolled into one, a package he knew he couldn't live a day without. But he was also deeply, painfully in love with her, adding a whole other world of complications to their life-sustaining relationship. To be this near to her, to feel the heat radiating off her body, to have her so close and yet so far away, to be close enough to touch her but unable to do so, was agony.

But how could he, how could he possibly articulate what he felt when, just as easily as she saw through him, he had spent an uncountable number of frustrating hours trying to pry open her carefully constructed armor and get to know the real Ziva David. Not that his pursuits had been entirely fruitless; he caught the occasional glimpse into her thoughts, increasingly frequent as the years went by, but he still didn't understand, still couldn't predict her every move, her every response, as she could his. And until he was sure, how could he risk endangering a connection that he valued so highly, needed so greatly, for one that might never come to be?

But what he really need right now, almost as much as he needed her to promise she would never leave him waiting and wondering, was sleep, and musing in the night, watching her rest was, frankly, creepy. He rolled over, determined to remove her from his field of view, as if it would erase her momentarily from his thoughts, and let the night engulf him.

*

It was the sudden change in the very breathing that had lulled him into an uneasy slumber that woke him from it with a start. No longer was it soporific, deep and measured. Instead it was shallow, the air coming in short, quick gasps. Tony sat up, silently thankful he had resisted the initial, almost uncontrollable urge to grab his gun and shot whoever the hell had roused him. Granted, it had evaporated almost instantaneously, but a moment was all it took. Now he was worried, resisting the urge to wake her too, as she trembled, moaning softly. Perhaps it would pass, and she would never be any the wiser.

But it didn't pass. Just when he decided it was safe to leave her be and prepared to go back to sleep, she began to speak. "No…no…please, don't… …no…" she pleaded with the unknown assailant, clutching at her pillow as if her life depended on it, rocking back and forth, and shaking her head violently. "Wait…I didn't mean it like that…he didn't do anything wrong…me instead…please, I beg of you…I deserve it…I'll do anything…just don't hurt him…please…" It was an almost inaudible whisper, desperate and strained. And suddenly, without warning she began to scream at the top of her lungs. She was shaking, face buried in the pillow and crying out in unimaginable pain.

"Ziva….Ziva! Wake up!" Her eyes snapped open and the shrieks died in her throat. He sat there for a minute, stunned, unable to do so much as move. He was stuck, unable to help, watching his partner, his rock crumble before his very eyes, emotionally shattered, sobbing uncontrollably. Then common sense kicked in and he reached out to her, pulled her into him, enfolded her tear racked body and did his best to comfort her. One arm wrapped around her waist, he nestled the other hand her hair and rocked her as he would a young child, softly and slowly, whispering sweetly in her ear.

It felt like an eternity, locked together in the dark, so close he could feel her heart beating against his own. And then, in a flash, it was gone. She was Ziva again. Closed forever was that small window to her tortured soul. She looked up, looked around, and buried her head in his chest again. "Oh my God." It was a whisper, so soft it strained his ears to make out the words. "Tony…I…I'm so sorry. I…"

"Hey." He smiled, letting his defenses wash away. This was the real Tony talking. He cupped her chin gently, bringing her tearstained face level with his, only inches away. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. This isn't a weakness…it's human." He shook his head as she tried to speak. "You owe me nothing."

She slipped her arms around his waist and relaxed, closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall into him. It was a moment before she spoke again. "You are wrong, by the way. Not that that is unusual, but…well…there are certain facts you should get straight." At his quizzical look, she smiled.

*

Hours later, drowsy and slipping in and out of consciousness, he felt Ziva begin to tremble again. She was pleading, in that same strained whisper, "Please…I'll do anything to save him…I…I love him…" He pulled her closer, sang softly in her ear, and waited for her tension to ease. In a few minutes, her body relaxed completely and her breathing became deep and measured once more. Pleased, he drifted back to sleep.


	2. Tortured Tangled Heart

**Hey guys. Just wanted to say thanks for the great reception the first chapter got. I was totally blown away. On a completely different note, this story was originally going to be a oneshot. You all have Litara to thank for Chapter Two; she set the evil plot bunny on me (if you see a girl walking around with a white, fanged rabbit gnawing on her bum, please stop over and say hi). It's really short, in comparison to the last chapter, and really angsty (dunno if I overdid it a little), but I personally love it. Feel free to tell me what you think (yes, a shameless ploy for reviews.) In any case, I don't own NCIS. There's also a slightly tweaked version of a line in there from Star Wars (something I've never done before…but it just fit so perfectly), so consider yourself disclaimed. With thanks to great scriptwriters and even better readers, I humbly present to you part two. Hey! That rhymed!**

Dawn was breaking when she woke, the sun just starting to peek through the half-closed curtains, casting unearthly, writhing shadows across the shady carpet, the darkening walls, intertwining, morphing into the formless monsters of childhood tales. It was cold. No, not cold, she reminded herself, this was Los Angeles. There was no rain, no snow, no cold…only bright sun and biting winds, fake smiles, steely glares, and the occasional brisk winter morning; she shivered involuntarily at the thought. That was all it took.

Suddenly, he was awake. His arms, wrapped protectively around her from most of the night, as if, by sheer force of will, he could fend off the shadowy specters that haunted her waking minutes and the incorporeal nightmares that frequented her dreams, instinctively pulled her deeper into his shielding embrace. His eyes were not even open, and yet his husky voice, thick with sleep, rang in her ears. "Ziva…s'just a dream. S'okay. M'here. Igotcha. G'back t'sleep."

A strange mixture of pleasure and revulsion welled up inside her as she patted his cheek clumsily, whispering, "I am fine, Tony. Do not worry about me." He nodded slowly, yawned, and nestled his face into her neck, unshaven cheeks scratching at the exposed skin. How could she lie there, lost in the moment, hoping it would last just a little longer, that maybe he would wake up just one more time, sigh dreamily into her ear, and tell her not to be afraid, that he would never leave her, no matter what? She disgusted herself.

What had she done to deserve this? Fire her weapon and walk away? That was all she was good at, all she knew. There was nothing, no problem in the world that couldn't be solved by one or both, any threat that couldn't be eliminated in a flash of silver and the pounding of feet…even Michael. All she'd done was run, run until she could run no further, until she was in the place she had called home, surrounded by the people she had called family, praying with all her heart that maybe he could find it in his to chase after her.

And he had. Somehow, for reasons she could not even begin to fathom, he had followed her, found her, saved her, long after she'd given up hope of ever seeing his smiling face again. Now she _was_ home, surrounded by her family, and still he was saving her, time and time again. She had done _nothing_ to deserve it, had nothing to give in return, couldn't even save him from the shadow of fear that clouded his own eyes.

She had seen it, even as he held her, rocked her, comforted her, how that fear, that pain, that confusion tormented him. And it was her fault. He had given everything for her, had been prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, and what had she done in return but compound his anxiety? It killed her, little by little, tore her apart piece by piece, drawing her days into nothing but a shapeless, faceless stream of excruciating pain. He had rescued her from the unimaginable, the unendurable, the one experience she knew she could not have survived. But when she let the desert, a part of her hadn't returned. Without it she was helpless, at the mercy of the terrible memories that crouched, hidden in the darkness, waiting for the moment when she let her guard down. And now it was hurting him too.

She had thought she was going to die in that desert, that she had faced the worst pain it was possible to imagine, that, regardless of what she did, how hard she fought, it would kill her. But she was wrong. Finally, staring, unblinking in the half-light, his warm body pressed against her back, lulling her to sleep with the steady rise and fall of his chest, she had come to the realization that nothing, no fists, no boots, no knives could ever hurt her more than the torture of watching him crumble, of watching him struggle in vain to hold it together, for them, for the team, for her. Not that it mattered. She was already dying. She had been, a little each day, since he'd walked back into her life. And how could she live with herself when, despite what it had cost them both, a small part of her thought that maybe, just maybe, it had all been worth it to spend one night in his arms.


	3. The Truth

** *disclaims…picks up sign:**_** Will bake cookies in exchange for reviews**_*** Sorry it took so long. Hope you enjoy it.**

She started, clasped her hand around the butt of her Sig in the time it took to realize it was nothing but her reached out in the dark, hoping against hope that the button she had found was the right one, and glanced downward. In glowing blue beneath the covers, etched on her wrist with an eerie finality, it read 1:55 AM. She rolled over, eyeing the slowly rising side of her sleeping partner, and smiled, joyless though the moment was. She resisted the urge to slide forward, to press her body against the warm length of his. Instead, she nestled deep into the pillow and let his deep, measured breathing lull her back to sleep, hoping to rest a little longer before she was once again wakened by a series of quick, sharp beeps heralding the change of those glowing numbers, the arrival of zero-three. She was satisfied, glad that he was at peace, that perhaps she was too. She had planned well, she thought. An hour was just enough time, but not too much. She had not woken him, that much was plain to see, and she was willing to do whatever it took, whatever penance necessary to ensure it remained that way. These were the consequences of her own actions, her own foolish decisions, and she would recompense for them a thousand times over. It was not his price to pay.

*

"Ziiiiiivaaaa." He glanced at his watch again and, frustrated and impatient, resumed tapping his foot to the beat of the ticking second hand. She had been locked in the bathroom for nearly thirty minutes doing God knows what, though, despite being an inconvenience and a nuisance, it had not become a problem until her indulgence began to eat into their five minute cushion. Vance would be expecting them, and it was not prudent to keep the Director of NCIS waiting.

"I'm _coming_." Her response was sharp, irritated. The room went silent as the roar of running water stopped. The click of the light-switch, the creak of the door. As she walked into the hallway, he silently caught his breath. All it took was the sight of her, thick, dark hair gently curled to frame her pale face, clad in a form-fitting charcoal skirt that left her sleek calves exposed, the collar of her crisp, white blouse dipping slightly lower than normal. Any trace of exasperation vanished as he lost himself momentarily in her familiar spicy-sweet aroma. But there was something different about her, standing in the doorway, both hands on her hips, a smile playing upon her lips. "Are we leaving, or are we not?"

Tony nodded affirmative and followed her down the corridor outside, quickly burning through every ounce of self-control he possessed in an attempt to prevent himself from looking up from the scuffed toes of his Italian loafers. It was not until the elevator door closed behind them and he finally allowed his eyes to drift upward toward hers that he realized what it was. Her forehead, usually smooth and softly bronzed, was creased with worry, and her eyes, so unfathomable he feared losing himself within their cavernous depths, were rimmed with dark circles, so well hidden with a few expertly placed daubs of make-up that they were nearly invisible to a casual passerby. "You look awful." The soft concern that laced her sultry voice caught him by surprise.

"I could say the same to you, but that wouldn't be entirely truthful. And what am I if not honest?" He grinned and she stared back, bemused. "It's okay to accept a compliment, you know."

"Oh." She looked away, casting her gaze around every inch of the elevator, anything to distract her from his green eyes, glinting with an irresistible happiness, completely at odds with the rest of his weary, haggard visage. Any longer and her unwavering gaze would probably have been considered rude. "Thank you." A ding; the doors of the elevator opened. As they exited, they found themselves engulfed, pinned together by an onslaught of self-important businessmen, yelling into headsets and tapping out messages on various mobile devices, that pressed on them from all sides, welcoming them back to reality.

*

She was completely and utterly focused, face hidden beneath a flowing and uncontrollable mass of hair, the only visible movement that of her pen flying across the page, detailing every second of their first, uneventful days in Los Angeles. Almost, he amended. Almost. There were certain aspects of the experience, more delicate events that he was fairly certain she would refrain from including. Regardless of the fact that her single-mindedness was reminiscent of the two armed marines that flanked the iron door behind which their charge resided, even though they were surrounded by nearly twenty other men and women, less impressively equipped, from a variety of agencies based around the countries, in spite of the report he himself was supposed to be writing, Tony could bring himself to do little but sip his scalding coffee, shoot surreptitious glances over the plastic lid at the woman sitting across the table from him, being attentive enough for the both of them, and wonder how she could remain so calm, cool, and collected while still haunted by the memory of an indescribable pain.

Her front was so well constructed, everything from her clothing to her mannerisms so completely normal that, even as he recalled all that had occurred that night, he found himself believing less and less that any of it had actually happened, that perhaps it had been nothing but a wonderful and terrible dream, for how could the unshakable beauty before him possibly be in any way the same train-wreck of insuppressible emotions that he'd held less than forty-eight hours ago, trying in vain to comfort as she sobbed into his chest. But it had to be. The weariness, the terror in her eyes was proof enough of that. He couldn't help but marvel at her strength, for he was fairly certain that he, never one to keep things bottled up, would have cracked long ago. And yet, somehow, even as she cried out in the darkness, begging for the life of an unknown man, she was somehow able to function, to execute her duties as near to perfection as it was possible to get, and pretend all that the three months she'd spent enduring the unthinkable had not affected her, that she was still the same Ziva, stubborn, and hot-headed, that had kicked down her own front door to find him lying on her carpet, bathed in the blood of a man she had loved, that she didn't live in constant fear of what lay in the far recesses of her mind, ready to strike the moment she closed her eyes.

And there he was again. The mystery man, the one who had tugged at his thought as he drifted in and out of consciousness, unwilling to wake but incapable of sleep. Ziva had said she loved him, had pleaded for his life, had offered to die in his place. The thought tormented him even now, as he watched her scribble frantically, somehow managing to form coherent words at lightning speed. Probably another Mossad trick….probably another Mossad man, he thought bitterly as he took a sip. Surely it couldn't be anyone he'd ever met. She'd never given any _American_ man the same look she'd given Michael, a haunting mixture of fear a fear so great and a love so deep that both threatened in equal measure to overwhelm her at any given moment, as he gasped, convulsing in a puddle of his own blood, slowly dying in her arms. But he had to know, had to be sure, because maybe, just maybe…

"Ziva, are you okay?"

She looked up, curious. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

He lowered his voice slightly. "No, no. That wasn't an, 'Are you pretending to be okay so that people will leave you alone to wallow in your own little pool of misery?' That was a genuine, 'Are you feeling alright, or do you need to talk about something?'"

She blushed, looking, for just a moment, so innocent that his heart melted in his chest. "Yes, Tony, I am fine. I promise that if I need something, you will be the first to know."

"Okay then. That's good….good." He screwed up every iota of courage within him, still unable to believe he was actually going through with this. But he had to know. "Because, you know…you just…you said some stuff that had me a little worried. I just wanted to make sure that you know….I'm…I'm always here if you need someone to talk to…about anything…you know…the past…the future…trouble with neighbors…or Gibbs…even guys, I guess." He forced a chuckle. "I'll try not to let my big brother kick in and whoop his sorry ass."

As he nervously pounded one fist against his other palm, grinning awkwardly, his heart beating painfully against his ribs, she dropped her eyes, cheeks flooding a still deeper crimson. "Oh…him again." She met his quizzical gaze for a moment, then retreated into her shell once more. "I….he….you know him too, Tony. You were with me when I met him…it was two or three years ago, maybe more, and…he was just so charming…caring…funny…just all around a great guy." She looked up again, examining his face, her dark eyes pleading with him, begging him to understand. "I…I think I fell in love with him the very first moment I saw him…it is not like it was something I could control…you know…we talked…laughed…and, before I knew it, my heart was gone and I could not get it back, even if I wanted to."

She fidgeted uncomfortably, her entreating eyes still boring into him. He was back again, clinging tightly to the moment as he peered through yet another murky window into her soul, torn between rapture and despair. She was in love, truly, deeply in love…but it wasn't with him. "And then he was gone…I did not…he was not really around much after that, though he would pop in here and there, almost as if to remind me that he did not just exist in my imagination…he came back at the beginning of the summer…a knight in shining armor, yes, I believe that is how you say it, in a time when I desperately needed one. And then Somalia…I…he….he had always been there for me before when I was alone….when I was in danger…when he knew I could not make it by myself…why should that time be any different? Even though he was not, he was always with me, to watch over me…to protect me…his memory gave me strength, for as long as he was by my side, Saleem was nothing…he saved me…saved me when I did not think I could be saved…and now…even now…he still saves me."

"He sounds wonderful." Tony tried to keep any hint of a quaver out of his voice. It was all too much, too much to handle at one time. This man was her hero, her savior, her life. How could he have ever deluded himself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, he stood any chance with her? She had someone better, someone who made her happy, who protected her in all of the ways that he desperately wanted to but simply could not. At least he knew now, had some inkling of the scope of her feelings. Now he could try, try to forget this had ever happened, that he had ever held a hope of anything more than a friendship with the woman who now watched him intently with searching eyes, as if trying to read what was written on his very heart, the heart he had worn on his sleeve since that day, the tail, the talk, the pizza, and the rain. Maybe, if he was very, very lucky, perhaps, with his dying breath, he could truthfully say that no longer loved her infinitely more than she loved the man he wished with every fiber of his being that he could be.

"He is. The most wonderful I have ever met, though I am not quite sure if he even knows it himself."

"It's strange. You'd think I'd remember him…but I just can't."

She sank a little lower in her chair, disbelief clouding her face. "Keep searching," it was not a statement, but a desperate plea. "I am sure you will find him."

He was too distracted by his own dismal thoughts to notice. All he could manage was a defeated, "Yeah. I'm sure." The splintering pain, the unequivocal hurt was evident in her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. He would have known, known, beyond any doubt, the truth of her words, if only he could have brought himself to look.


	4. Losing It

**All material is property of CBS and the super-fantastic creators of NCIS, with special thanks to Jason Aldean for "I'll Walk," and to Garth Brooks, whose "Beaches of Cheyenne" was on repeat for several hours last week when I finally finished planning and then again today when I wrote this section. Warning: the following chapter contains language and comments that some may find offensive. Nothing stated in aforementioned chapter in any way reflects the personal views of the author or affiliates. Sorry guys, it had to be done. Jobless high school sophomores tend to have a difficult time affording lawyers. It's kind of hit or miss, I guess. I'm not quite sure what to think of it, particularly because, for reasons you'll hopefully understand later, I had no real base for character reactions, but I'd love to hear from you. Oh, by the way, the longer italics are sort of their thoughts, and I really hope I got the little bit of Italian right. If someone wouldn't mind correcting me if I'm wrong, that would be phenomenal. Did you know that, contrary to popular belief, it does in fact rain in Los Angeles? In any case, by hitting the big green button, for good or evil, you are guaranteed to make the author very happy (or, if you don't want me to be happy…well, I'll feel whatever you want me to). Thanks for reading and have a great new year! Now what are you still doing listening to me ramble? Go! Read!**

"Unbelievable. You are absolutely unbelievable." Ziva sighted, massaged her temples, and rested her forehead against the cool, frosted glass of the car window, staring out at the deserted stretch of road before them.

Tony grinned cheekily. "I know. But, for some reason, very few people seem to be aware of it." She glared at him, disgust etched in every line on her face.

"She was married to First Lieutenant Davenport for fifteen years, had known him for ten before that. She is nearly six years your junior, and she has been a widow for all of three weeks. Words fail me, Tony. How could you possible assume that it was acceptable to hit on her, or to fantasize, out loud, no less, about 'what you would like to do with her?' We are federal agents. The people involved in our investigations are experiencing very trying times in their lives, dealing with the loss of family, of property, with unsavory revelations. They expect us to be professional when going about our work, to – "

"Spare me the lecture, Ziva. I'm not six anymore. I am perfectly capable of distinguishing right from wrong, and the decision, when I choose to make it, to blur the line between acceptable and unacceptable conduct is entirely my own. The last thing I need is a _probie_ telling me how to do my job." He kneaded the supple leather of the steering wheel.

"Excuse me for trying to help my wayward _partner _realize what an ass he is being." She sat up a little straighter, eyes boring into the side of his head. He didn't flinch, didn't even turn. "She is devastated, heartbroken, trying desperately to pick up the pieces he left behind when you waltz in, straight into the middle of her train wreck, and act your regular, charming self." The sedan reverberated with her words, three times louder than usual and dripping with sarcasm. "You flirt with her, tell her she is pretty, make her feel special. And now, well now she is confused and even more emotionally distraught than before, because she knows that she should be mourning her dead husband instead of pining after you.

"But the next time she sees you, she cannot help herself. She subtly lets you know that maybe, just maybe, she might be interested. And what does the fabulous Anthony DiNozzo do? He treats her as an accessory to murder _when it would be perfectly clear to anyone in possession of a working brain_," she was on the verge of shouting now, so successful in drowning his each and every protest that Tony was reduced to smoldering in silence, grinding his teeth and drumming the wheel impatiently, "that she had absolutely no hand in her husband's death. But that does not really matter to you, does it? And neither does she. She is not a living, breathing, feeling human being. No. She is just one more night, just one more conquest, just one more chip in your bedpost, if she should be so lucky."

"It's a notch, damnit! A notch in your bedpost, not a chip!"

"Either way," she muttered, "any more and your bed might not be able to withstand the strain."

"Hey! It's really none of your business who I may or may not be sharing my bed with and what I may or may not be doing with them."

"Actually, Tony, it is. Because, one of these days, all of those broken hearts you leave behind are going to come back to bite you, and then it will not only be my business, it will be my _problem _too because no one else is stupid enough to clean up your messes."

"Are you implying that I can't handle my own problems, bec – "

"Perhaps."

"– because it seems a bit ridiculous to be taking relationship advice from a woman who's had to bury two of her last three boyfriends."

"Neither of their deaths were my fault, seeing as one was poisoned by his secretary and the other was shot to death by a half-crazed man with a severe superiority complex – "

"What part of self-defense isn't getting through your thick sk – "

"The part where you followed me around D.C. for days on end like a little lost puppy. But 'the heart wants what it wants,' does it not? It cannot be helped if mine is a masochist."

"Don't stand there and expect me to pity you, David. You're a big girl, perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, even if your taste in men does suck more than a kid trying to _drink_ a Frosty. So why is it that you're always begging for help, from Gibbs, from Daddy, from me? Can't you do _anything _on your own?" She twitched involuntarily in the direction of the Sig strapped to her hip. "And there you go again. What's the matter, Zee? Can't compete? When in doubt, blow everyone up? You'd have thought that all this time in America would've taught you something, but you know what they say: you can airlift the girl out of the god-forsaken no-man's-land, but I'll be damned if you can _ever_ get the god-forsaken no-man's-land out of the girl."

"Anthony DiNozzo, I swear – "

"What're you gonna do? Castrate me with office supplies? Is that really the best you've got? Frankly, I find your lack of creativity quite hurtful. Am I not even worth an original death? But, then again, what am I to you but a traveling sobs story? I guess I should be honored simply to be among the victims of the great Ziva David."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Wrong? Wrong?! With _me_?! There is absolutely _nothing _wrong with me! I am perfectly normal. But you, you, on the other hand, you're insufferable, stubborn, obnoxious, self-centered, refuse to admit when you're wrong, for some reason have failed to grasp the concept that you can, in fact, combine 'it' and 'is' and 'can' and 'not,' – that's called a contraction, by the way. You should try it some time – and you're always more important than anyone else in the room. I hate to break it to you, but we're not in Kansas anymore. You're not the Director's daughter. You're just another probie, only good for getting coffee and the occasional shoe polish – "

"Just your shoes, dear? Is that really all you need? I could get you breakfast, wax your car, clean your apartment, because I really have _nothing_ better to do all day than cater to your every need! I am a special agent. A probationary SPECIAL AGENT, Tony, just like you, but with supervision, something, I might add, you are in desperate need of! Despite the fact that I am not a _Senior Field Agent_, I do, in fact, possess the ability to blow your brains out the back of your head every time with the just flick of a finger! I would like to be treated with even a smidgeon of the respect that that should earn me! I also bear the full rights and responsibilities of a SPECIAL AGENT, and you know full well that I would lay down my life for the good of this country, for Gibbs or McGee, for Abbey, for you. Ta – "

"You know, sometimes I wonder about that."

She spluttered for a moment, fumbling for words, then retreated into stunned silence.  
Sheets of small drops began pounding the windshield, momentarily masking the tension. Then a whisper, quite, deadly, filled with malice. "Pull over."

"What?"

"You heard me. Pull over. Now."

"Are you nuts? We've still got ten miles to go, and it's pouring." He gestured half-heartedly toward the window. Nothing could be seen but the faint, shadowy outlines of the enormous oaks lining the damp, ill-lit street.

"And your point is what?" Her response was icy, biting, her eyes, usually so warm and welcoming, overflowed with a glistening, bubbling hatred. "Contrary to popular belief, I am, in fact, perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Now pull over."

"No." Their eyes locked, never strayed from the other, one brimmed with loathing, the other smugness and defiance. A smirk played his lips. She clenched her jaw, pursed her lips. Then, in a sudden and unexpected flurry of motion, she lunged, clasped the steering wheel, wrenched it from his grip. The wheels, screaming against the slick blacktop, slipped, sending the car careening into a tailspin. Time stopped. Nothing was real, save for the wheel he jerked from Ziva's grip, the floor he pounded in vain, desperately searching for a savior that would not come. He knew, instantly, instinctively, without question, that they would die there, together, and that Gibbs would somehow find it in himself to fly out from Washington and wipe them off the streets of L.A. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in a small part that he had shunted aside, it registered that the last words she would ever hear him speak were cruel, heartless, fueled by pain and anger, and that, miraculously, he had meant each and every one. He couldn't help it. He crossed himself, reached out to the god he had long since abandoned, prayed that some way, somehow, she would live, and that she could find it in her heart to forgive him for the truths he had never meant to speak. Then, just as he had finished, had resigned himself to a quick, painful, fiery death, it was over.

The small, silver Mercedes lodged itself, back wheels spinning aimlessly in mid-air, halfway over the divide between that particular stretch of deserted highway and the grove that lined it. He caught his breath, regained his surroundings, and promptly lost his head. "You could have killed us both! What the fuck is your problem?!" _For a second, I thought I'd never see you again._

"At the moment? You." _Please, just apologize. I cannot be the one to do it first._ She reached for the door, hand shaking slightly as she clasped the cool handle. Just as she braced herself, ready to turn her back for good, his warm hand clasped her wrist and tugged her round to face him. "Let. Me. Go." _I will never forgive you if you do. _He met her gaze and tightened his hold.

"No." _You'll never forgive me if I do._

"Anthony DiNozzo, let go of my arm this very instant or, I swear to God, I will rip your hand off and take it with me for a souvenir!"

"No."

She twisted violently from his grip and leapt from the car, slamming the door behind her and starting down the empty stretch of boulevard before she could lose her nerve. Behind her, several grunts, a thud, and the roar of an engine. Within seconds he cut her off.

"Get in the car." _Please. Don't make this difficult. _Without looking up, she left the road in favor of the marshy ground that bordered it, pausing only to remove the spiked black pumps she had worn that day. The car whined, sputtered and died. He jumped out without a second thought, began sprinting to catch up. "What are you, crazy?!"

She shot him daggers, eyes glinting under the mass of black hair plastered to her forehead. "Apparently so." She turned her back yet again.

He was begging now, desperate for her to return. "Ziva, c'mon. It's late, it's dark, it's cold. I'm sorry. Now can we please go."

She scoffed. "Are you really? Are you sure that is what you really mean? Somehow I doubt that. I doubt that very, very much." She continued on her way, the pat of her bare feet drowned by the pounding of the rain.

"Ziva!"

She spun on her heel, voice cracking, eyes filled with tears. "What, Tony? What more do you want from me? An arm? A leg? I have a kidney or two to spare, would you like one of them? That is your problem, you know. You have absolutely _no_ appreciation for _anything_ that another is forced to endure. Do you have any idea – "

"You want to know what your _real_ problem is? It sure as hell ain't me! Everything with you has to be one giant fucking production. Take last summer, for instance. For weeks, _weeks_, you kept us in the dark, never quite sure what to do, never quite sure what the hell was going on!"

"That wasn't my – "

" And you couldn't just tell us, could you? No! Of course not! We had to fly to fucking _Israel_, had to make more than _half-a-dozen_ trans-atlantic phone calls before we had any semblance of an idea about what was _really_ happening! And just when we thought it was finally over, just when you'd _finally _left us in peace, BANG! You go and get yourself sunk in the middle of fucking _nowhere_ and we have to go trapeezing off to – "

"I never wanted you t – "

" – Somalia! _Somalia_, of all places! I saved your sorry ass _again_, and you have the _gall_ to lecture _me_ about appreciation?!"

Tears poured down her cheeks, mixing with the rain. "You just don't get it, do you?" _And you never will. _She sighed, crossed her arms, bit her lip. "Unbelievable."

"Isn't it though? I can't believe that I _actually_ went after you. What a waste of time. I mean, what was I really hoping to accomplish by it? What did I accomplish? I guess I did get to take another fantastic trip to your nasty little hell-hole of a homeland."

"How dare you – "

"What's the matter, Ziva? Have I crossed a line? Does it make you _angry_? Angry that I've never liked Israel? That I hate your father? That I _hate_ Mossad and everyone affiliated with it? I can't for the life of me figure out why you dedicated all those years to an organization that not only didn't give a shit about you – because I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but no one, not even your precious father, has ever given a shit about you – but doesn't give a shit about anything else. What good do they do? I've only ever seen them blow up innocent people and pin the blame on their quasi-innocent employees. What a waste. What a _colossal waste _of your time and mine."

"So what are you saying, Tony? That I'm not worth it? That I'm _not worth the effort_? If I'm such a colossal waste of your precious time, then go! Just get the hell out of here and never come back!"

He laughed, actually laughed, right out loud, cackled like a maniac for all the world to hear. "And may I ask why on Earth I should listen to a _probie_ not even worth her weight in cheap coffee?! That's simply illogical!"

"You are so infuriating! I could just – "

"Could just what, Ziva? Wring my neck? Knock my lights out? Go on. Give it your best shot." _Please, just do it. Do it now. Put me out of my misery. _

She saw red, screamed with pent up fury, and instinctively threw the first thing she could get her hands on: the soaking, three-inch stilettos that she'd been holding for the past five minutes. The heel of the first caught him in the forehead, leaving a deep gash that spurted watery blood in every direction. The second made contact with his cheek, crippling him with pain. He staggered in the direction of the stalled Mercedes while Ziva searched for more ammunition, briefly considering the knife tucked in her belt.

After several minutes of frantic fumbling, a roar of life. He pulled up beside her, began rolling down the window when she finally drew her Sig. A deadly whisper. "I said _go._" One look at the wildness, the fiery mixture of agony, disdain, and despair in her eyes, and he knew that she would do it without a moment's hesitation. Tony hit the gas.

In his rearview, she stumbled into the darkness. He tapped his breaks, almost turned around, but then he saw her anguished face in his mind's eye. _"Just get the hell out of here and never come back."_

As his taillights disappeared on the horizon, Ziva curled into a ball, held herself close. Rocking herself slowly, in the middle of a deserted street in the pouring rain, she buried her head in her chest and wept.

*

Four hours later, still drenched and bloodstained, Tony sprawled across the spotless duvet, staring intently at his phone. He knew, without a doubt, that she would not pick up. But maybe, just maybe…

The door flung open and _she_ walked in, back erect, chin held high. Her dark hair, wet and disheveled, was plastered to her forehead, her back, her cheeks; her once prim pantsuit was muddy and torn, the blouse vaguely see-through; her eyes were rimmed with black, which smeared across her cheeks and trickled down the side of her nose; her pursed lips and pale skin were tinged blue; she shook violently; on her wrist there bloomed a large purple and black bruise in the shape of a man's hand; and as she walked proudly across the plush crème carpet, she left in her wake a dotted trail of bloody footprints.

"Oh my God…Ziva, I…I'm so....so sorry. I – " _I love you._

"L'odio." She swept a blanket from underneath him and, without casting him so much as a glance, settled into one of the leather recliners, her back to his stricken form. _I hate you._


	5. A Journey of a Thousand Miles Part I

** I know the beginning of the last chapter was pretty confusing, for which I apologize profusely. Tony just made a comment about wanting to sleep with a widow from a previous case and things sort of went from there. Anyways, this chapter was split into two sections, mostly because I feel guilty for leaving you hanging. The second part'll be up by Tuesday. Please feel free to let me know what you think. I'd love to hear from you.**

Hours later, Tony lay awake, eyes trained unblinkingly on the shadowy ceiling, tracing its web of cracks and lines, seeing her face in every one. She consumed his thoughts, crouched, hidden in the deep recesses of his mind, waiting for him to close his eyes. She had always been there, blithe smile and twinkling eyes, mess of curls cascading down her back, at the end of a long, hard day, there to comfort him, to hold him, to tell him everything would be alright. She had spent three months with him in a floating, testosterone fueled city, his only light in a sea of darkness. For those five unbearable months when she'd walked out of his life for good, he'd spent every night with her picture under his pillow and his arms around her waist, wishing that, just once, he'd been given the chance to hold her like he'd always dreamt of doing.

But now, when he really, truly needed her, the woman who waited for him wasn't his Ziva. She was an abomination, all crying eyes and a bleeding heart, staring at him down the barrel of a 9 mm, her finger inching closer to the trigger with every second that passed. Her eyes were the worst; their inky black depths held nothing but pain, an earth-shattering, mind-blowing, heart-wrenching pain made all the more piercing by the realization that every drop was of his own making, that, no matter what he did or said, he would never again see her smile without that ghost of indescribable hurt clouding her beautiful eyes. He would give anything in the world to erase it, would work until he had not an ounce of life left in his veins, would sacrifice his life, his home, his future, to mend what he had broken, to make her whole again.

*

She was sprinting, tearing up one deserted street and down another. And yet, no matter how many corners she turned, how many fences she scaled, they were always there, just inches behind. Her thighs burned, lungs seared, breaths came in quick, short gasps. But she couldn't stop, couldn't give up, even as the street suddenly narrowed, black pressing in on all sides. Her vision cut in and out; suddenly she was scrambling backward on the dusty ground, desperately searching for an escape as they closed in from all sides, looming, laughing manically. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, could see nothing but their shadowed faces and their glimmering eyes as her world collapsed upon itself, as the sky went dark for the last time.

Ziva lurched, stock still as her eyes darted around the sun-soaked room, then slumped into the overstuffed chair, sweating, panting, vision obscured by an unruly mane of curls. She mentally berated herself for allowing those thoughts to affect her so. It was a weakness, regardless of what Tony might say to the contrary. Besides, she had more important things to worry about, namely the safety of one toothpick chomping administrator who – she whipped around, floundering momentarily before finally finding what she sought: the glowing red numbers awkwardly positioned on the bedside table farthest from her,_ 12:15_.

She was up and halfway to the bathroom before she collapsed into a cringing pile of searing pain: the delicate web of half-formed scabs that crisscrossed the soles of her feet had, at the same moment, torn in all different directions, leaving her immobile and whimpering as she dotted the already soiled carpet with still more blood; she resolved to crawl.

Within a few minutes, Ziva had managed to hoist herself onto the marble countertop, where, positioned between the gold-plated faucets, she rested her head against the mirror's cool, reflective surface. How on earth did she expect herself to perform her job when she couldn't even bring herself to walk ten feet to wash her face? It was her own fault….her own pride…it was sheer stupidity….it was Tony. Her temper flared slightly, extinguished almost immediately by a wave of hurt and confusion, tempered by exhaustion. Oh, the things he had said….no. She shouldn't be thinking about anything he had said, thought, or otherwise alluded to during that fateful conversation – those words had haunted her throughout the night, reverberating in her mind, echoing across the room. Seeing his face, stony, pale, etched with malice and spite every time she shut her eyes was punishment enough. Was it really necessary to play the exchange again, as she had for hours, lying in the dark and wishing she could read his thoughts, to see if, perhaps, his mind brimmed with the same regrets that had plagued her until the sun had first peeked over the horizon, that eerie time between dawn and dusk, sleep and conscious, when she finally shut her eyes.

She let out a howl of frustration. Why did things always have to be so damn complicated? With Mossad it had been simple. Fraternization was discouraged. Relationships were kept one-hundred percent professional, cordial but cool; the less involved you were with your colleagues, the less it hurt when they were torn away. Everyone latched on to their first partner, idolized them, emulated them, only to watch them be gunned down, blown up, or hacked to pieces before their eyes. No one ever made the mistake again. As you grew up, you grew in; there was no other option.

But here, here things were different. It wasn't simply hellos, coffees, an offhand comment about the weather and the most recent assignment. They were more than colleagues, more than partners even. They were one mind in two bodies, two halves of a seamless whole. Here, nothings meant everything and there was no such thing as a simple question. They were all guarded eyes and shuttered hearts, and she _had_ to pry, _had _to dig, _had_ to know more, because he wasn't just her partner, wasn't just an replaceable, gun-toting commodity to keep her on the straight and narrow, he was essential, integral, an indispensable part of her life. She had to care, how could she not? Even as she knew herself, she knew her partner, so that when she cut, the words were like knives. But knives left wounds the eyes could see, wounds that would heal in time and leave nothing but faint scars in their stead. Words left marks that time could never mend, this she knew, for, with every beat of her flayed heart they smarted, stung with a pain she had never known: the price of getting too close.

Her eyes fluttered open and she splayed her palms by her sides, ready to give walking another try, when she caught sight of a neatly folded letter perched atop a pile of freshly laundered towels. It was addressed, in Tony's neatest printing, to her.

_Ziva,_

_Just in case you were curious, you called in sick this morning. Apparently your fever was so bad that you could barely form coherent sentences, so Vance's got Jessop covering for you, and I'm covering for him. No one knows where we're going yet, so don't even bother trying to find us. You didn't sleep at all last night, you need the rest. Collins said he'd drop by around 1245h to see how you were doing, so just relax and enjoy your day off. If you need anything else, my phone is always on. I guess I'll see you tomorrow. _

_Tony_


	6. A Journey of a Thousand Miles Part II

**First of all, I do apologize for the whole Tuesday thing….I did write over a thousand words for the last chapter thought, so not a complete loss. I blame finals. My first-aid knowledge is extremely limited (pretty much, if it's bleeding, rub some dirt on it; if it hurts, go see Brenda, the school athletic trainer), so please just suspend your disbelief for a little. I know it's probably not accurate, but whatever. The only part of this story that is in any way my intellectual property (besides the liberties taken with aforementioned treatment of wounds) is Special Agent Collins, and even he's based off of one of my best guy friends, so unless he recently sold himself into slavery and conveniently forgot to mention it the last time I saw him, I don't really own Collins either. And Gibbs is #2 on her speed dial….wonder who #1 might be? On a different note, "Jetlag" was Tuesday's Prime Time Pick in this morning's L.A. Times! Enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to review!**

She sank lower into the bath, letting the water envelop her, allowing it to wash the worries from her troubled mind. Slumping against the cool porcelain, she relaxed her aching muscles, let herself to drift away on a bed of steam that wafted lazily across the surface of the murky water and into the netherworld of her subconscious. For a moment, she was finally at peace. Then, a knock on the door.

"Damn it! [Find the Hebrew transliteration]" She started, clambered out of the tub as fast as her tender feet would allow, and found herself standing, momentarily lost, in the middle of the empty bathroom, dripping steadily on the smoky marble floor. "Towel….towel," she muttered to herself, searching desperately for several seconds before stumbling across a thick terrycloth robe hung conveniently on the back of the door. "I suppose this will have to do." She pulled it on and proceeded to wring out her hair over the sink. Another knock. "I will be there in a moment, Collins! I just," she lowered her voice, "completely forgot that you were coming." One last mirror check, and she bustled out of the bathroom to open the door.

The tall, lanky agent stood silently in the hall, a covered tray held slackly in his grip. Behind his sandy bangs, his eyes widened as he looked from her damp, tousled hair down to her bare legs, then back up to the long, thin triangle of exposed flesh at the neck of her robe. He floundered for a moment before settling his gaze squarely on the tips of his polished shoes. "I…um, I….um….Tony, he, um, well, he asked me to….to, you know, check and see if…um…well, if you were doing alright. I mean, well, not that you can't take care of yourself, because, I mean, obviously you're, well, you're perfectly capable of…um…I mean, it's not like, well…it's not like you need, um, well, like you need anyone to….um….well, he just...he said that…um….well, that you weren't feeling all that well, and…um…" he proffered the tray and smiled weakly at his feet. "I brought breakfast."

She smiled indulgently and stepped aside, "In that case, I suppose I will have to let you in. Who am I to turn down a free meal?" He looked up and grinned sheepishly as he brushed passed her, making his way across the room to place the tray on the desk.

"Bon appetite." He bowed away from the desk, settling himself neatly on the end of the bed while she quickly ate her way through a plate laden with eggs, toast, and various other trappings of a traditional morning meal.

Finally, she looked up at him over the rim of her steaming mug. "This is my favorite, you know. The tea. My absolute favorite."

He cheeks tinged pink, he nodded slightly. "I…I didn't know. It was –"

"Tony."

"Yeah. How did you –" He cut himself off when he saw her, a blend of confusion and hurt on her face, staring into the dregs of her cup, lost in thought. She took a sip. "I…um…I was also supposed to give you this." He handed her a small, unlabeled container of a white cream that smelled suspiciously of cinnamon. "It's apparently some sort of secret DiNozzo family recipe that's supposed to heal cuts and abrasions. Don't worry," he amended as her eyebrows knit together, "I watched him make it this morning. I don't know if it'll actually work, but it wouldn't kill you to try it. You're supposed to," he pulled a wad of gauze and several rolls of tape out of a coat pocket, "wrap it up when you're done. He wouldn't tell me why, just that I was supposed to tell you how to use it and help you if you asked." He faltered. "Do you…well, what I mean to say is, would you like me to –"

"Yes…"

"Jamie."

"Yes, Jamie. If you would not mind, that is." She smiled again.

He beamed. "Of course not. I'd be happy to help."

*

They spent close to fifteen minutes in silence, carefully applying the salve, Jamie's callused hands gently cupping Ziva's heel, holding the gauze in place as she bandaged her wounds. "You're lucky, you know." The softness in his voice, the fact that he had spoken at all, caught her completely off guard.

"What?"

"I said you're lucky. Some people go their entire lives without finding that person, the one person that loves them unconditionally, that will do anything for them, that will stay by their side no matter what. It's even harder for us. We're in a dangerous line of work. Every day might be our last, and to have that someone to share it with, to make it all worthwhile…that's special. You're lucky." She nodded, almost imperceptibly and his dark eyes met hers, twinkling with unspoken knowledge. He smirked. Placing her foot tenderly on the floor, he rose from his crouch, and turned his back to her. "He looked like shit this morning."

He glanced at her over his shoulder, taking her silence as invitation to continue. "Bloodshot eyes, dark circles…I swear to God, it looked like he hadn't slept in days. If it weren't for the Armani suit and the designer cologne, I wouldn't be able to tell him apart from that guy who's always bumming around outside the bus stop on Fifth." He paused for a moment, watching her intently, twisting the golden band that encircled his left ring finger. Tony was his friend, the kind of buddy he went out for drinks with on a regular basis. He was also the man who, on one of those nights, had introduced him to the woman that waited for him back in Washington, wearing his ring and carrying his child. He wouldn't push Ziva too far, wouldn't torment her more than she already tormented herself. But it was the least he could do to say to her what Tony himself could not bring himself to reveal.

"Look," Jamie said, wheeling about to face her, "I don't know what exactly went down between the two of you, but he's beating himself to death over it. Hasn't smiled all morning, wouldn't say more than two words to Jessop. The only reason he even acknowledged my existence was because he needed me to do something for him. He showed up at 0500h, had six cups of coffee, and spent the next forty-five minutes pacing back and forth muttering to himself. 'She hates me…wouldn't even let me apologize…fucking idiot…you fucking idiot…' Now Tony can be a real jackass sometimes, but he's a good guy. I'm not saying you should forgive him. By all means, make him earn it, give him a little hell if he deserves it, but cut him some slack, won't you? We both know he's too proud to actually come out and apologize, but he really is trying to make it up to you…in a strange, roundabout, Tony sort of way."

He glanced at her again, both satisfied and mildly disgusted with himself when he saw her, overwhelmed with regret, trying to hide her glistening eyes in a studious examination of her mangled nail beds. "You might want to give him a call." She nodded. He smiled and made his way toward the door.

From behind him, a small voice. "Thank you, Jamie."

"Not a problem, Ziva. It was my pleasure."

She looked up as the door closed behind him, fingering the cell phone he'd placed in her hands as he left. _"Cut him some slack, won't you? He really is trying to make it up to you…in a strange, roundabout, Tony sort of way. You might want to give him a call…she hates me…fucking idiot…you fucking idiot." _She dialed one and hit send.

"DiNozzo." His voice came through hoarse and cracked.

"I…I'm….thank you, Tony." She slammed the phone shut before he had a chance to reply and placed it gingerly on the desk. Fingers still trembling, she took several deep breaths, slowing her racing heart rate, quieting her racing mind.

From an inner pocket in her overnight bag, she pulled a small, folded square of paper, worn and crumpled, yellowed with age, stained with dirt and sweat, flecked with blood. Unfolding it, she sat down and picked up a pen.

_25 November 2009_


	7. Begins With a Single Step Part I

** BLECH!!!! No me gusta este chapter. Yeah, I know, fail en Espa****ñ****ol. But I felt it was a bit necessary, so please just bear with me and then skip on over to Chapter 8, where the real fun begins. **

Ziva splashed her face with water, the cool droplets cutting glimmering tracks against her pale skin, and glared into the mirror, disgusted with the weepy wreck of a woman reflected back at her. How could this have happened? How could it have come to this? She felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing, was nothing but a limp, helpless doll adrift in a sea of isolation and despair. That sea was bubbling, simmering with anger and indignation, with frustration and fear. And, now, it was no longer just Tony that fanned the flames. Now it was her fault too.

Had she spent her life training, fighting, struggling against all odds; had she allowed herself to be used, abused, and tortured by everyone that had ever meant anything to her; had she cut out her heart, sold her soul to her devil of a father; had she persevered all these years only to be broken now, to be stricken not by bullets or shrapnel, but by cruel words and a shattered heart? It was weakness, plain and simple. She had gone soft, pliable, become a tool to be wielded by others, and it was unacceptable. Regardless of the fact that the mere thought of his twinkling eyes and mischievous smile made her weak in the knees, even though every reminder of his mind blowing, heart wrenching pain was a physical assault on her body, she would not hand him forgiveness on a silver platter. He would have to earn it, just like everybody else.

*

_Just spit it out. Come on. It's two words. Two measly words in exchange for a second chance at the possibility of a lifetime. You only get one shot at this. All you've gotta do is open your mouth and spit it out. _He took another sip of coffee, rubbing his tired eyes and trying to shake the persistent ache of exhaustion from his bones. Twelve more hours, just twelve more hours and some spare change. And an apology. The most important of his life. Maybe some groveling too. Whatever it took. She was worth it.

It went against everything he had ever been taught, everything he had ever known. It went against his very nature to even contemplate uttering the accursed phrase, triggered an internal struggle to mouth the words to himself in preparation. _Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness_. But it wasn't, wasn't even close. It was the right thing to do, the only thing, because the things he had said and done were inexcusable. This was the exception to the rule. Pride was now weakness, humility strength. For the very first time in his life, he knew, without a doubt, that Gibbs was wrong, that if he followed in the footsteps of his mentor they would lead him nowhere but to a musty old basement and a bourbon in a Mason jar. He could almost see it now, _Ziva_, painted in shiny black lacquer, curling and crackling, engulfed by dancing flames. Maybe some people enjoyed that, maybe he would end up that way no matter what, but he wasn't Gibbs. He couldn't just tear people down and walk away; it didn't sit right, left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. So he had nothing left to do but apologize profusely and hope she could find it in her to forgive him. Besides, it was not like he hadn't already exhausted every other option.

_Footsteps. He was on his fourth cup of coffee, the caffeine from the first just starting to kick in, enough so that he could finally lift his head of his own accord. Two Collins swam before him, criss-crossing back and forth between the flickering beams of light. "Hey To – oh my God!" A tactical pause. "What happened?" _

_ His voice was gruff, hoarse from lack of use, from the salty tears that coated the inside of his throat. "Cut myself shaving." A glare, daring him to contradict._

_ Confusion, realization, quiet. "You might want to think about replacing that blade."_

_ A nod. Another mouthful of hot, bitter liquid. Clarity in a cup. He examined his dirty, bedraggled nail beds for lack of better things to do. Finally, the words came. "I've got a favor to ask of you."_

*

She was slumped against a wall, arms crossed tightly across her chest, face partially obscured by a curtain of delicate curls, when he walked in. Though she watched his every move closely, attempting to decipher his body language, she made no move to acknowledge his arrival. After a brief pause, in which he braced himself for dismissal, for a barb that never came, he slid to the ground beside her and proffered the steaming, cardboard cup in his right hand.

"Coffee?"

Ziva nodded slightly in thanks and took a long sip before resuming her examination of paint flecks peeling off the wall opposite her. Tony took to studying an FBI agent seated at the table nearest them in the overcrowded hallway, systematically tapping away on his cell phone, doing anything and everything to keep his gaze from straying to the soft curve of her neck, her trademark provocative slouch, to keep his mind in the here and now, sequestered from that far-off dreamland where everything was just as it should be, where the sun always shined and the wind never blew, where good conquered evil and love conquered all.

"So…" he tapped his thigh offhandedly with a clenched fist. Starting serious conversations was _not_ his specialty. "How…how was your day yesterday?"

She looked at him quizzically over the rim of her cup for a moment, trying to puzzle him out before answering cautiously, "Fine. Yours?"

"Meh. It was okay, I guess. I did, however, discover that there is something more mind-numbing than desk duty."

Still she was tentative, cautious, quiet, and unengaged. "And that would be?"

"Sitting in a hallway for eight hours while the Toothpick argues with a bunch of other controlling know-it-alls."

A humorless laugh. "I am most certainly well acquainted with the feeling." They sat in silence for several long minutes; she sipped nonchalantly while he tried to force himself to meet her eyes.

"Listen, Ziva, I…about the other night…I…what I said about you…about your father, and Somalia…just pretty much everything, really…I didn't mean it. You're really…I mean, you're brave and selfless and intriguing and infuriating all at the same time. But you're also my partner, and…well, just because you're my best friend doesn't give me the right to treat you worse than a pile of shit every time I'm in a bad mood. You deserve so much better, and I'm gonna make it my job to see that you get everything and more. Consider me your personal little slave, anything you need, I'm a call away." _Idiot! You fucking idiot! What the hell are you rambling on about?! Just spit it out already!_ "I'msorryZiva."

She raised an eyebrow, that familiar half smile painted delicately on her face. "I'm not saying you should forgive me…by all means, I'm long overdue for some good old fashion groveling and a slap upside the head. Don't let me off the hook. I…well, I couldn't leave things like that…you're my partner and I… I just thought you should know." _There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?_

He could have sworn he heard her chuckling. "Okay."


	8. Begins With a Single Step Part II

**I'm really sorry. Hinky internet is out to screw with my poor, overworked brain and I didn't have time to try and repost again till just now. Hope this works. *crosses fingers* I don't know about this chapter. Not that there's anything wrong with it so much as it's kinda…not out there, but…whatever. You guys get to be the judge, and, in any case, I'm kind of in love with the ending, which should be up tomorrow, seeing as a vast majority is already written. Enjoy, and pretty please leave a review. It would make my day. **

"I do not like this at all." She drummed the steering wheel impatiently and glanced up at the rearview yet again.

"Nobody likes traffic, Zee-vah, but it's 1800h and we're on the 101. There's not much you can do about it."

She glared at him before checking the mirror. "Not this…_this_." She gesticulated wildly, as if attempting to convey the scope of her words. "Is he _trying_ to get himself killed?"

Tony laughed derisively. "Probably. But apparently whatever intel he's gonna get from this creep is '_vital to national security.'_ Then again, this is coming from the guy who's chummy with North Korean assassins, so for all we know his informant could be a leader in the IRA or something. And why on Earth does he decide to wake up Collins and Jessop and go all the way out to Sylmar on a Wednesday during rush hour? That's suicide! I mean, we're not even – "

"Tony!" she cut in sharply, indicating the mirror on the passenger side. "Grey sedan three cars back. Kilo-Delta-Zulu-8-6-4-3. They've been with us since we got on the freeway half-an-hour ago."

He glanced at the Jetta she'd singled out and snorted. "We're on a deadlocked highway, Ziva. Ever stop to think that maybe they're just headed in this direction too? Lots of people commute to and from the city every day. And, as far as I'm aware, we haven't moved more than three feet in that half-an-hour. Don't worry about it."

She pursed her lips, thought for a moment, and then laid on the horn causing a man in the car next to them flipped her the bird and cranked up his stereo. She glowered at him before glancing up at the rearview again.

*

"See, he's gone."

"He got off the freeway with us, Tony. Just because he turned right and we turned left does not mean that he is gone. And that white pick-up that pulled in behind us is still there. Could be working together. The more cars you have, the less likely your quarry is to get suspicious. Now, guaranteed it becomes far more difficult to coordinate a tail when you have more than one person doing the following, but most of the time it is worth it to –"

"Ziva, have I ever told you you're paranoid? Relax."

She bit back a sharp retort and changed the subject. "Why is he doing this again?"

"A personal case."

"Just like Kai was a personal case?"

"Pretty much."

"I do not like this one bit."

"Look on the bright side. At least we're not the ones stuck in the car with him. There _are_ some benefits to having a partner with seniority."

*

"So, let me get this straight. We were instructed to watch two sides of a dilapidated house while our charge calmly discusses matters of 'national security' with a greasy-haired man who has gang symbols tattooed on one forearm and trash marks up and down the other?"

"_Track _marks, Ziva, and it looks that way, yeah."

Rolling her eyes, she tapped her foot impatiently and looked around: at the end of the cement driveway, decimated by a mat of interlocking crevices from which peeked tufts of green grass, a chain link fence hung precariously off a rusty hinge; the crumbling cement square, a poor excuse for a courtyard, in which they stood was surrounded on two sides by masses of tangled, overgrown shrubberies that spilled out of their beds in all directions; the house, small, rickety, and in desperate need of a paint job, looks almost as though it were collapsing in on itself, with two walls flesh against a brick outcropping behind them that seemed to hold the entire building up.

"I do not like this."

"Somehow I think I figured that out already."

"What are we even doing here? This is stupid, reckless, pointless, and absolutely –"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Just," he flicked his hand in the general direction of the driveway, "be on the lookout for men with guns and heroin. Not like they'd be carrying either of them out in the open for everyone to see or anything, but…whatever. Jessop said he'd be out coffee in a few." Tony yawned loudly, rubbing his eyes like a small child, and started pacing back and forth across the square. Though outwardly he appeared focus, extremely intent on the task at hand, his eyes were glazed over and every few minutes he blinked forcefully, fighting the urge to succumb to exhaustion. Ziva resolved to keep an eye on him.

*

Fifteen minutes later, she peered around the corner, checking to make sure Tony hadn't curled up into a ball on the patio and dozed off. He was, in fact, standing idly near the front door, sipping a from a large, decidedly grimy cup, and deep in conversation with Jessop, who was leaned casually up against the door frame, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes to the living room just beyond. Her stomach turned over, tied itself in knots: something was off. Tearing her gaze from her partner's back, she searched the little enclosed area for any signs of a disturbance. She found none, was about to return to her post, berating herself for paranoia, when she saw it.

A shock of hair on the other side of the chain link fence, partially hidden by a jumble of leaves and vines. A flurry of movement. A glint of metallic light. The trials of the week evaporated in an instant. Her mind was blank. She saw nothing, thought nothing, gave not a second thought to what her pounding heart told her to do.

"TONY!"

She jumped.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Thud.

A flurry of gunfire. Thud. The pounding of feet. The squeak of the door. A babble of voices, incoherent.

A hoarse whisper, thick with tears. "Ziva...no…please…"

Somewhere in the distance, almost unintelligible, "We have a federal agent down! Repeat, federal agent down!"


	9. Never Let You Go

**After almost four months, eight chapters, and several cases of mistaken notebook identity that resulted in delayed publishing of the following, here it is! The end! Read and enjoy! Please don't forget to review and know that I love you all!**

_Bang. Band. Bang. Thud._

Time stood still as she hit the ground, crumbling, collapsing inward upon herself. She didn't move, didn't struggle to her feet, didn't scramble for the gun that had skidded several yards out of her reach. She just lay there, spread eagle on the cracked cement, bathing the little tufts of grass in a steadily growing pool of sticky, crimson blood. She was broken, unmoving, her fleeting breaths coming in short, ragged breaths.

Suddenly, he was mere hours away in a deserted diner, staring down at the bullet riddled body of his charge, determined in death as she had been in life, fingers still curled loosely around a smoking gun, mouth set in a hard line, unshakable. It was an empty store in Georgetown and he was throwing himself against a wall as rolling waves of heat and a deafening roar stole her name from his lips. It was a Virginia rooftop, the start of it all, and a spray of blood coated his face. He watched, helpless, his partner falling…falling…

A weak, hacking cough. "T-Tony…" He collapsed beside her, staining the knees of his khakis, the palms of his hands bright red as he tore at the buttons of the thin cotton shirt. It had once been white, but now…so much blood…

"Ziva. C'mon now. Just stay with me…please…you gotta stay with me…I…"

"Tony." Her voice was quite and strained and she wheezed with every gasping breath. "Are you…alright?"

A humorless laugh. "Unbelievable…absolutely unbelievable…" His voice trailed off as he ripped open her shirt. One slug lodged in her left shoulder, invisible in the torrents of blood spurting forth from the wound. There were two more, one just right of the sternum, the other buried over her heart, but… "Kevlar." He stared in wonder at her from a moment before her shallow gasps snapped him back to the reality of the situation, to everything that was at stake.

She made a painful attempt at laughter that ripped out his heart. "Rule 17: Always wear Kevlar…when on…protection," a hacking cough, "…protection detail."

He smiled slightly and, ignoring her groans of pain and protest, applied pressure to her gushing shoulder, sending up a silent thanks to the red-headed partner who had always thought of everything, who'd been responsible for the rule's institution. Even four years gone, she still had their backs. "Now, aside from the obvious, is anything wrong? Anything broken? Anything numb?" His wide, frightened, tear-filled eyes locked on hers. "If there's anything at all the matter, Ziva, you've gotta let me know."

She looked him up and down and bit her lip. "Tony, I…I can't…can't breathe."

*

Everything was a blur, a sterilized, Clorox-scented, white and metallic blur. Although he caught scraps of conversation, "One pint AB negative…through and through…broken rib…punctured lung…surgery now," nothing registered. It was all white noise, unintelligible and decidedly unimportant when compared with the woman lying in the gurney beside him, hooked up to countless machines that beeped and whorled, eyes glazed and unfocused, sucking oxygen from a mask that obscured most of her face. Suddenly, he was shunted aside as they shoved her through the doors and into a restricted wing of the hospital, leaving him standing, dazed and disoriented, in the middle of an empty linoleum floor, as two strangers in lab coats whisked away everything that meant anything towards the bright white light.

*

Countless hours, several phone calls, and one cross-country plane ticket later, safe with the knowledge that Gibbs was on his way and that Ziva, who had spent the better part of the day in surgery, would emerge from her drug induced coma within the hour, slightly holeyer and a tad worse for wear, but otherwise unscathed, Tony slumped against the back of his chair and watched her, her back toward him, rising and falling slightly, completely at peace with the world.

He was lost in thought when a nurse he supposed was beautiful walked in, cheeks tinged pink and a shy smile painted on her face. "Mr. DiNozzo? With your permission, we've scrapped the clothes Ms. David was wearing, but these were on her person and we thought you'd like to hold on to them for her." She handed him a few menial possessions and, with a grin, left the room: her keys, buffed to a shining brass by the hospital staff, and a small, folded square of paper, worn and crumpled, yellow with age, stained with dirt and sweat, and half drenched in blood. Curiosity piqued, he glanced over at her sleeping form before unfolding it gingerly.

He stared in disbelief at the aged packet that sat in his lap: several worn pages covered in her small, perfect script and a small, fading picture, taken in a carnival photo booth eons ago, two young agents, smiling wildly, his head thrown back, tears of joy streaming down his face, hers resting on his shoulder as she bent double, in stitches. Another covert glance in her direction. There was no resistance. He wanted to know, absolutely had to know. His heart skipped a beat – it was addressed to him.

_24 May, 2008_

_Tony,_

_It is my sincerest hope that you will never read this, never even know if its existence, that one day I will be able to watch this scrap of paper curling to ashes in the dead of night. But you and I both know that that can never be._

_Since the day I was born, it has been my destiny to be killed in the line of duty, in service to my country. I have known my entire life, and it does not trouble me in the slightest. Recent events, however, have forced me to contemplate my own mortality in a far different manner than I could ever have imagined. It was not that she died, for she died a hero's death. And though she was strong, decisive, and brilliant, the fact that she is gone has only a small part to do with the letter I now write. _

_It was the look on his face, the hurt and the anger, the adoration and tenderness in his eyes. It was watching one of the strongest men I have ever known stare down at the broken and bloodied body of his partner, the woman he had loved with all of his heart, and be unable to cry, unable to breathe for the pain it caused him, because now she was gone and she had taken his heart with her, leaving behind nothing but an endless stream of questions that will never be answered, one boat that will never be burned. This time, they will not get another chance. We may never get that chance at all, and I could never do to you what Jenny did to Gibbs. _

_Whether you are sitting at Bethesda right now, waiting for the monitor to flat-line, or you are halfway around the world and this letter appears on your desk out of the blue after fifteen years, just please know that, regardless of whatever may have happened between us, regardless of the years and the miles that separate us, regardless of any actions I may have taken in haste, in fits of rage or stubbornness, regardless of anything I may have said or done to hurt you, to push you away, I love you with all my heart and soul, more than any one human being has ever endeavored to love another. I love the way your smile lights up a room, the way you find the humor in even the worst of situations, how, underneath the insolent and irritating exterior, you are the kindest, sweetest, gentlest, most wonderful man I have ever had the pleasure to meet. One day, you are going to make some lucky woman very, very happy. It was almost Jeanne. Here's to hoping that maybe, just maybe, it might be me._

_I am doing my best to avoid being presumptuous. If reading this is becoming an awkward ordeal, please be content to know that it has been an absolute honor to be on your six for all this time, that you are a fine agent, one of the best I have ever worked with, and that you have been and always will be my best friend. But, on the off chance that you feel the same way, I could not bear the thought of you staring down at my broken body and wondering what you could have done differently. You have already done far too much. I am forever in your debt._

_Please, do not mourn me. Do not cry, do not lose sleep, and, whatever other request you choose to ignore, please do not blame yourself. Whatever may have happened, it was not your fault. You could not have stopped it from happening, could not have done anything to change it. My time at NCIS has been the best of my life, and I promised myself long ago that I would do anything for those of you who made it so. It was my own choice. I have no regrets. Please, take a second to remember what happened last time you tried to change my mind. _

_Give Abby a hug and tell Gibbs and McGee that I will miss them, that I love them. Then, forget me. Let me fade into your memories, become blip in an otherwise long, happy, and healthy life. Do not leave my desk empty and untouched. Do not give an Israeli outsider dirty looks when she chooses to sit in my seat. Do not leave my sketchbook in a drawer, gathering dust, for her to find one night in the bullpen. Burn it if you want, save it if you like, take it home if you must, but do not just leave it. It's unhealthy. You must bring yourself to move on, to find happiness. It is my dearest wish that you do. And if you ever find yourself wondering, "What would Ziva do?", as you have often found yourself doing with others, remember that, when in doubt, it nearly always involves a paperclip and firearms, and that I will be watching over you, laughing my head off._

_I believe that it was you who once told me you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I have never been a hero, but perhaps, in my death, I had the opportunity to become one. Maybe I brought down four men in a firefight. Perhaps I tackled a suicide bomber to save the lives of those around me. Or, maybe, I died the greatest death of all – maybe I took three rounds for the man I love more than life itself. Life will go on without Ziva David, but, without you, my world would come crumbling down. _

_From the moment we met, my heart has belonged to you. Please, take good care of it for me._

_All my love,_

_Ziva_

_1 September, 2009 - I took this with me when I left. Foolish, I know, because, had I died as was intended, it would have died with me. But I blamed you and you blamed me; I had crossed a bridge and torched it in my wake, never to be crossed again. You didn't care anymore, and it was easier for me to pretend that I didn't' either than to spend every second of every day wondering why on Earth I still did. So it came with me, tucked in the pocket above my heart, the only thing that kept it beating, because with it were thoughts of you. Then you came, when I did not think you would, found me when I did not want to be found, saved me when I had all but given up hope. I never did thank you properly, but I do not know that it needs to be said. You said you couldn't live without me. The look on your face said you loved me. That was all that really mattered._

_25 November, 2009 - Collins told me. Just in case I never get the chance to say this, I lied before. I do have one regret: I regret, more than anything, that I have never told you face to face what I have had locked inside me for as long as I can remember, that the only time I ever left my heart on a platter for the taking, I was forced to sit back and watch as yours shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. All I ever did was push you to your limits, push you away, then watch you as you left, wishing I had the guts to chase after you. I am so sorry, so unbelievably sorry for everything, for all of the pain and hardship I foolishly caused you. Thank you for standing by me through the years in spite of it all, for being my light in a sea of darkness, for being my knight in shining armor, for riding to the rescue every time I was alone or scared or in need of a shoulder to cry on. I forgive you a thousand times over and can only hope you will find it in you to do the same. Goodbye, my love._

He read it three times over, just to be sure he hadn't misinterpreted. It was impossible to fathom, absolutely beyond his understanding. Just a few days back, she said that….but wait…could it be? Had it really been him all along? He floundered for a moment, drowning in the possibilities, when a monitor behind him beeped loudly, registering a change in pulse. She mutteres something.

"No…it can't be… I did what you asked me to….please tell me he's going to be okay…." Her lower lip trembled slightly and she dug her fingers into her pillow. A single tear trickled down her cheek. A quick look both ways and he slid into bed beside her, gingerly wrapped an arm around her waist, brushed aside her hair, and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. She sank back into his chest, nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm. Her breathing slowed.

"It's okay, honey, I've got you. I've got you now and I promise, I'll never let you go."

_FIN_

**So, did ya like it? Hate it? Impartial? Let me know! I'd love some feedback to apply to another story that I'm planning to start in a few weeks. Bad news: sad and currently title-less (I'm working on that one). Good news: established Tiva and hopefully an intriguing plot. Thanks so much for sticking by me. You are the best. **

**Love, LadyE**


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